


All That You Can't Leave Behind

by beingevil



Series: The Past is Another Country [2]
Category: Journey into Mystery, Thor (2011), Thor (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Warning: There will be future references to past Thor/Loki, almost all my cards are now on the table
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 20:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beingevil/pseuds/beingevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An amnesiac Norse god and his equally amnesiac adoptive brother tour Paris.</p><p>This is a continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/274072/chapters/433983">lest we remember</a> (G, with innuendo that's rated M), in which Donald Blake and Serrure meet in Paris, and for which <a href="http://eleedoesart.tumblr.com/">eleedoesart</a> (also <a href="http://chocolateisforever.deviantart.com/">here</a> on deviantArt) drew gorgeous, gorgeous Don and Serrure artwork. </p><p>You can follow Serrure and Don’s travels around Paris <a href="http://beingevil.tumblr.com/tagged/all-that-you-can%27t-leave-behind">here</a> (via photographs on Tumblr).</p><p>Warning: This series will eventually make reference to past Thor/Loki. Further explanation of the rating in the notes at the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That You Can't Leave Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to everyone reading this: May you always have a place to call home, and somewhere (or someone, if that's what you choose) to come home to. 
> 
> And it is also dedicated especially to [amandes](http://amandes.tumblr.com/), because this story owes a great deal to her. (All other mistakes are my own) 
> 
> Incidentally, happy birthday to [Chris Hemsworth](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1165110/). 
> 
> Explanation for the warning for Thor/Loki: The story as it stands now is gen, but it will make future reference to past Thor/Loki.

Serrure is horrified when he discovers that Don hasn't seen Paris outside of the airport and his nightly walks around Montmartre.  
  
Don explains somewhat diffidently that he just hadn't gotten around to seeing the rest of Paris. He fully intended to, one of these days, when there weren’t quite so many patients, when the weather was better, when his French was better… he was certain it would happen.

Serrure, naturally, refuses to put up with his excuses, and so begins the education of Donald Blake in the beauty of Paris.  
  
They start with Montmartre.  
  
The Sacre Coeur is a magnificent architectural monument, made all the more magnificent by the many, many steps Don has to climb to get there. Serrure, the little demon, takes great joy in racing ahead of him, and _gloating_. Don is this close to wringing his neck when he reaches the top, but the view over Paris takes his breath away.

They watch the sun set from their vantage point high above the city. When evening is nearly done settling in, Don thinks they should start making their way back, but Serrure tells him to wait.

When the starlight pours down on them from the heavens, and the moon (and the strategically placed lights around the basilica) illuminate the great stone walls and the dome, Don is glad he let Serrure convince him to stay.

The boy in question seems miles away, even though he is right by Don’s side. Serrure’s gaze is cast in the direction of the horizon, and it is clear that his thoughts are elsewhere.

When Don reaches out to rest his hand against the boy's shoulder, it is as much for himself as it is for Serrure.

Serrure doesn't flinch at Don's touch, but he does turn.

“So,” he says, the wry twist at the corner of his mouth deepening, “Was I right about staying?”

Don nods. “You must have seen this thousands of times,” he says, somewhat abashed. “Thank you.”  

"It feels different," Serrure says, quietly, "When I’m watching it with you."

In companionable silence, they watch the moon rise over a city alive with light.

+

The Arc de Triomphe doesn’t seem to impress Serrure very much, though Don is fascinated by the daily rekindling of the Memorial Flame, and by how the country chooses to remember its dead.

 “Sentiment,” he says, dismissively, which Don finds strange, for he would have thought a Parisien would have more pride in the ceremony. When he says as much, Serrure lifts a shoulder in a classic Gallic shrug. “I’m French, not foolish,” he sniffs.

“Anyway,” Serrure says, “Triumph in war isn’t about dying for your country. It’s about making the other side die for theirs, isn’t it?”

This side of Serrure has troubled Don ever since he realised it existed. He tries not to let it show, but he thinks, from the sidelong glance Serrure casts him, that Serrure already knows.

+

Don has never been one for art, or galleries, but today Serrure insists on both.

The Louvre is not a place he would voluntarily have made his way to, but even he has to admit that the grounds are very grand indeed, and that gilded hallways and paintings are all very impressive. He spends most of their visit waiting on various benches while Serrure conducts what feels like an unnecessarily thorough inspection of every single painting, and every single artifact, in the three ( _three!)_ museums that make up the Louvre, his face alight with fascination and alive with curiosity.

Don cannot for the life of him understand what fascination these relics hold for Serrure. If he had to pick one treasure within all the walls that he likes best, it would have to be the one he brought in with him.

+ 

As they leave the Louvre, Serrure takes pity on him (not without muttering that he is an uncultured buffoon without the slightest appreciation for culture), and takes him to the Jardin des Tuileries.

While paintings and history aren’t things Don particularly cares for, gardens he likes well enough.  He feels that he comes alive in their vast open expanses, and fresh air never fails to wake him up.

The only strange spot in an otherwise enjoyable day is where Serrure inexplicably spends so much time staring at a particular fountain that Don starts to wonder what kind of mischief he is plotting, and goes off and gets them a crepe to share in order to distract him from it.

When asked, Serrure will only say that the fountain seemed familiar.

+

Versailles is one of the rare places they agree on.

In every way, it is a palace of a king. The courts, gilded halls and gardens are in every way glorious to behold, and for once there is a place that captivates both of them equally.

An inexplicable sense of familiarity sinks deep into Don’s bones as he and Serrure wander through the palace apartments, Serrure thoughtful and excited by turns.

In the Hall of Mirrors, Don watches as Serrure’s reflection chases him across the floor, and something unnamable stirs deep in the back of his mind when he catches sight of Serrure's face half-shadowed against ever-changing walls. It feels – but it cannot be – too much like the ghost of a memory.

His thoughts are interrupted by a concerned middle-aged woman who comes up to Serrure and engages him in a conversation which seems to start on a serious note, but ends with much lively gesticulating at Don and smiles all around. Don knows there is no way this will end well, but is too curious not to ask Serrure what transpired.

“I said we were brothers,” Serrure says, his eyes wide with beguiling innocence. Don gives him a disbelieving look, and Serrure laughs in his face. “Isn’t it wonderful what people will believe?”

“It is not nice to _lie_ ,” says Don, reprovingly.

“It could be true,” Serrure counters, far too earnestly.

“… How?”

“If you were adopted!” exclaims Serrure, who then bursts into peals of delighted laughter at the expression on Don’s face. “Which is exactly what I told her!”

Sometimes, there is no reasoning with the boy.

+  
They are out in the gardens when it starts to rain, too far away to race back to the nearest shelter before they are utterly drenched.

Serrure tugs on his wrist and points him at a cluster of trees not too far away. “Not my best idea,” he explains, “But the best there is for now.”

They fold themselves under the densest branches as best they can, and settle down to wait out the rain.  
  
Don is soon startled by Serrure's warm weight sinking into his lap, as the boy stretches out under the trees, resting his head in Don's lap. He sees Don staring and lifts an eyebrow.

"Since we're here, you might as well be useful," he says, by way of an answer to a question Don wasn’t going to ask.

Serrure has quite a sharp tongue when he chooses to unleash it. Don leans back against the broad trunk and listens to the wind through the trees and the steady beat of the rain. Somewhere far away, the distant rumble of thunder echoes across the sky. He rests his hand in Serrure's dark hair and absently runs his fingers through it.

Something about this moment feels so achingly familiar to him, though he cannot think why.

+  
  
On the train journey back, lulled by the click of the rails, Serrure leans against his side and falls asleep on his shoulder.

He realises then, suddenly and unexpectedly, that he has never been happier, and that he has no reason to name for it.

Back at Don’s quarters, which are closest to the Metro, Serrure snuggles in to his shoulder as Don opens the door. That’s when Don realises he must surely be exhausted, for if he were properly awake, Don has no doubt that he would never have done this.  
  
"Can I stay?" Serrure murmurs sleepily.

Lost in thought, Don misses his words, and shamefacedly asks Serrure to repeat himself.

Serrure sighs. "Can I stay here tonight," he says, sounding a little testy now, and punctuates the last word by tucking his head into the curve between Don’s arm and shoulder. "Because I wouldn't like to get caught again by some gang while I was stumbling home half asleep. If I do, you have my solemn word that I will crawl back here bleeding so you may have the pleasure of sewing me back up again."

Don makes a dismayed noise, at which Serrure chuckles. "You always make it far too easy for me." He tips his head up. "I know you'll be there if anything happens," he says, simply.

There seems nothing to it but for Don to bundle Serrure up and tuck him under the covers of his worn cot bed. Dark curling hair frames sleepy green eyes as Serrure stares up at him.

"Stay with me," he says suddenly, tugging at Don's sleeve.

Promising himself that he'll get up when Serrure falls asleep, Don kicks off his shoes and crashes inelegantly down beside Serrure.

Don barely has time to register that the curve of Serrure's mouth looks far too much like triumph before Serrure curls into his side, as easily and naturally as if he's been doing it all his life.

Don thinks of protesting, of insisting they keep their distance, but he is so tired, the bed so comfortable and Serrure's presence so very oddly familiar that he falls asleep almost immediately.  
  
His last conscious thought is to wonder why, thousands of miles away from New York, this of all places feels like home.  
  
+  
  
He dreams.  
  
He dreams of gilded halls, of the world below his feet, of the stars high above in the heavens. Of endless skies, green fields, and a palace. Of a place that feels more like home than anywhere he’s ever been. And through it all, he dreams of a presence that winds through all his dreams with a sharp gaze and a sharper smile, one that he almost (but not quite) remembers.

 


End file.
